BY  THE  SAME    WRITER: 

PROSE 

THE  SECRET  ROSE 
THE  CELTIC  TWILIGHT 
IDEAS  OF  GOOD  AND   EVIL 

VERSE 
POEMS 

THE  WIND   AMONG   THE   REEDS 
THE   SHADOWY   WATERS 
IN  THE    SEVEN  WOODS 


PLAYS   FOR   AN   IRISH    THEATRE 
VOLUME  II 


THE    HOUR-GLASS   AND 
OTHER    PLAYS 


THE   HOUR-GLASS 

AND  OTHER  PLAYS 

BEING   VOLUME  TWO   OF   PLAYS   FOR 
AN   IRISH   THEATRE 

BY 

W.   B.   YEATS 


gorfe 
THE   MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

LONDON :  MACMILLAN  &  CO,  LTD. 
1916 


COPYRIGHT,  1904, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN   COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.  Published  March,  1904.  Reprinted 
December,  1904 ;  April,  1906;  September,  1909  ;  October,  1911 ; 
November,  1912  ;  February,  1914  ;  March,  1915:  September,  1916. 


Norton  oB 

J.  8.  Gushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 
Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


CONTENTS 

MM 

I.     THE  HOUR-GLASS 1 

II.     CATHLEEN  Ni  HOOLIHAN          ...      47 
III.    A  Pox  OF  BROTH  81 


"The  Hour-Glass,"  first  performance,  Dublin,  March, 
1903.  "  Cathleen  Ni  Hoolihan,"  first  performance,  Dublin, 
October,  1902.  "  A  Pot  of  Broth,"  first  performance,  Dub- 
lin, October,  1902.  These  plays  were  performed  by  The 
Irish  National  Theatre  Society,  which  has  repeated  them  in 
London,  Dublin,  and  other  places. 


vii 


2091440 


THE   HOUR-GLASS 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

A  WISE  MAN  SOME  PUPILS 

A  FOOL  AN  ANGEL 

THE  WISE  MAN'S  WIFE  AND  Two  CHILDREN 


THE  HOUR-GLASS 

A  MORALITY 

SCENE  :  A  large  room  with  a  door  at  the 
back  and  another  at  the  side  opening 
to  an  inner  room.  A  desk  and  a 
chair  in  the  middle.  An  hour-glass 
on  a  bracket  near  the  door.  A  creepy 
stool  near  it.  Some  benches.  The  wise 
man  sitting  at  his  desk. 

WISE  MAN     ^turning  over  the  pages  of 
a  book~^.       Where  is    that   passage  I  am 

to  explain   to  my  pupils    to-day  ?     Here 
3 


4  THE  HOUR-GLASS 

it  is,  and  the  book  says  that  it  was 
written  by  a  beggar  on  the  walls  of 
Babylon :  "  There  are  two  living  coun- 
tries, the  one  visible  and  the  one  in 
visible  ;  and  when  it  is  winter  with  us 
it  is  summer  in  that  country ;  and 
when  the  November  winds  are  up 
among  us  it  is  lambing-time  there." 
I  wish  that  my  pupils  had  asked  me 
to  explain  any  other  passage,  for  this 
is  a  hard  passage.  \The  FOOL  comes  in 
and  stands  at  the  door,  holding  out  his 
hat.  He  has  a  pair  of  shears  in  the 
other  hand,]  It  sounds  to  me  like  fool- 
ishness ;  and  yet  that  cannot  be,  for 
the  writer  of  this  book,  where  I  have 
found  so  much  knowledge,  would  not 


THE  HOUR-GLASS  5 

have  set  it  by  itself  on  this  page,  and 
surrounded  it  with  so  many  images 
and  so  many  deep  colours  and  so  much 
fine  gilding,  if  it  had  been  foolishness. 

FOOL.     Give  me  a  penny. 

WISE  MAN  ^turns  to  another  page^. 
Here  he  has  written :  "  The  learned 
in  old  times  forgot  the  visible  coun- 
try." That  I  understand,  but  I  have 
taught  my  learners  better. 

FOOL.     Won't  you  give  me  a  penny? 

WISE  MAN.  What  do  you  want  ? 
The  words  of  the  wise  Saracen  will 
not  teach  you  much. 

FOOL.  Such  a  great  wise  teacher  as 
you  are  will  not  refuse  a  penny  to  a 
Fool. 


6  THE  HOUR-GLASS 

WISE  MAN.  What  do  you  know 
about  wisdom  ? 

FOOL.  Oh,  I  know !  I  know  what 
I  have  seen. 

WISE  MAN.  What  is  it  you  have 
seen  ? 

FOOL.  When  I  went  by  Kilcluan 
where  the  bells  used  to  be  ringing 
at  the  break  of  every  day,  I  could 
hear  nothing  but  the  people  snoring  in 
their  houses.  When  I  went  by  Tub- 
bervanach  where  the  young  men  used 
to  be  climbing  the  hill  to  the  blessed 
well,  they  were  sitting  at  the  cross- 
roads playing  cards.  When  I  went 
by  Carrigoras  where  the  friars  used 
to  be  fasting  and  serving  the  poor,  I 


THE  HOUR-GLASS  7 

saw  them  drinking  wine  and  obeying 
their  wives.  And  when  I  asked  what 
misfortune  had  brought  all  these 
changes,  they  said  it  was  no  misfor- 
tune, but  it  was  the  wisdom  they  had 
learned  from  your  teaching. 

WISE  MAN.  Run  round  to  the 
kitchen,  and  my  wife  will  give  you 
something  to  eat. 

FOOL.  That  is  foolish  advice  for  a 
wise  man  to  give. 

WISE  MAN.     Why,  Fool? 

FOOL.  What  is  eaten  is  gone.  I 
want  pennies  for  my  bag.  I  must  buy 
bacon  in  the  shops,  and  nuts  in  the 
market,  and  strong  drink  for  the  time 
when  the  sun  is  weak.  And  I  want 


8  THE  HOUR-GLASS 

snares  to  catch  the  rabbits  and  the 
squirrels  and  the  hares,  and  a  pot  to 
cook  them  in. 

WISE  MAN.  Go  away.  I  have  other 
things  to  think  of  now  than  giving 
you  pennies. 

FOOL.  Give  me  a  penny  and  I  will 
bring  you  luck.  Bresal  the  Fisherman 
lets  me  sleep  among  the  nets  in  his 
loft  in  the  winter-time  because  he  says 
I  bring  him  luck ;  and  in  the  summer- 
time the  wild  creatures  let  me  sleep 
near  their  nests  and  their  holes.  It 
is  lucky  even  to  look  at  me  or  to 
touch  me,  but  it  is  much  more  lucky 
to  give  me  a  penny.  \Holds  out  hit 
hand.]  If  I  wasn't  lucky,  I'd  starve. 


THE  HOUR-GLASS  9 

WISE  MAN.  What  have  you  got  the 
shears  for? 

FOOL.  I  won't  tell  you.  If  I  told 
you,  you  would  drive  them  away. 

WISE  MAN.  Whom  would  I  drive 
away? 

FOOL.     I  won't  tell  you. 

WISE  MAN.  Not  if  I  give  you  a 
penny  ? 

FOOL.     No. 

WISE  MAN.  Not  if  I  give  you  two 
pennies  ? 

FOOL.  You  will  be  very  lucky  if  you 
give  me  two  pennies,  but  I  won't  tell 
you. 

WISE  MAN.     Three  pennies  ? 

FOOL.     Four,  and  I  will  tell  you! 


10  THE  HOUR-GLASS 

WISE  MAN.  Very  well,  four.  But  I  will 
not  call  you  Teigue  the  Fool  any  longer. 

FOOL.  Let  me  come  close  to  you 
where  nobody  will  hear  me.  But  first 
you  must  promise  you  will  not  drive 
them  away.  [WiSE  MAN  nods.~^  Every 
day  men  go  out  dressed  in  black  and 
spread  great  black  nets  over  the  hills, 
great  black  nets. 

WISE  MAN.      Why  do  they  do  that? 

FOOL.  That  they  may  catch  the 
feet  of  the  angels.  But  every  morning, 
just  before  the  dawn,  I  go  out  and 
cut  the  nets  with  my  shears,  and  the 
angels  fly  away. 

WISE  MAN.  Ah,  now  I  know  that 
you  are  Teigue  the  Fool.  You  have 


THE  HOUR-GLASS  11 

told  me  that  I  am  wise,  and  I  have 
never  seen  an  angel. 

FOOL.     I  have  seen  plenty  of   angels. 

WISE  MAN.  Do  you  bring  luck  to 
the  angels  too  ? 

FOOL.  Oh,  no,  no !  No  one  could 
do  that.  But  they  are  always  there  if 
one  looks  about  one ;  they  are  like  the 
blades  of  grass. 

WISE  MAN.    When  do  you  see  them  ? 

FOOL.  When  one  gets  quiet ;  then 
something  wakes  up  inside  one,  some- 
thing happy  and  quiet  like  the  stars  — 
not  like  the  seven  that  move,  but  like 
the  fixed  stars.  ^He  points  upward.! 

WISE  MAN.  And  what  happens 
then? 


12  THE  HOUR-GLASS 

FOOL.  Then  all  in  a  minute  one 
smells  summer  flowers,  and  tall  people 
go  by,  happy  and  laughing,  and  their 
clothes  are  the  colour  of  burning  sods. 

WISE  MAN.  Is  it  long  since  you 
have  seen  them,  Teigue  the  Fool  ? 

FOOL.  Not  long,  glory  be  to  God ! 
I  saw  one  coining  behind  me  just 
now.  It  was  not  laughing,  but  it  had 
clothes  the  colour  of  burning  sods,  and 
there  was  something  shining  about  its 
head. 

WISE  MAN.  Well,  there  are  your 
four  pennies.  You,  a  fool,  say  "Glory 
be  to  God,"  but  before  I  came  the 
wise  men  said  it.  Run  away  now.  I 
must  ring  the  bell  for  my  scholars. 


THE  HOUE-GLASS  13 

FOOL.  Four  pennies !  That  means  a 
great  deal  of  luck.  Great  teacher,  I 
have  brought  you  plenty  of  luck !  [He 
goes  out  shaking  the  lag.~^ 

WISE  MAN.  Though  they  call  him 
Teigue  the  Fool,  he  is  not  more  foolish 
than  everybody  used  to  be,  with  their 
dreams  and  their  preachings  and  their 
three  worlds ;  but  I  have  overthrown 
their  three  worlds  with  the  seven  sci- 
ences. [He  touches  the  books  with  his 
h(mds.~]  With  Philosophy  that  was 
made  for  the  lonely  star,  I  have 
taught  them  to  forget  Theology ;  with 
Architecture,  I  have  hidden  the  ram- 
parts of  their  cloudy  heaven ;  with 
Music,  the  fierce  planets'  daughter 


14  THE  HOUR-GLASS 

whose  hair  is  always  on  fire,  and  with 
Grammar  that  is  the  moon's  daughter, 
I  have  shut  their  ears  to  the  imagi- 
nary harpings  and  speech  of  the  angels ; 
and  I  have  made  formations  of  battle 
with  Arithmetic  that  have  put  the 
hosts  of  heaven  to  the  rout.  But, 
Rhetoric  and  Dialectic,  that  have  been 
born  out  of  the  light  star  and  out  of 
the  amorous  star,  you  have  been  my 
spearman  and  my  catapult !  Oh !  my 
swift  horsemen  !  Oh  !  my  keen  darting 
arguments,  it  is  because  of  you  that  I 
have  overthrown  the  hosts  of  foolish- 
ness !  [An  ANGEL,  in  a  dress  the  colour 
of  embers,  and  carrying  a  blossoming 
apple  bough  in  his  hand  and  with  a  gilded 


THE  HOUR-GLASS  15 

halo  about  Ms  head,  stands  upon  the 
threshold.^  Before  I  came,  men's  minds 
were  stuffed  with  folly  about  a  heaven 
where  birds  sang  the  hours,  and  about 
angels  that  came  and  stood  upon  men's 
thresholds.  But  I  have  locked  the 
visions  into  heaven  and  turned  the 
key  upon  them.  Well,  I  must  consider 
this  passage  about  the  two  countries. 
My  mother  used  to  say  something  of 
the  kind.  She  would  say  that  when 
our  bodies  sleep  our  souls  awake,  and 
that  whatever  withers  here  ripens  yon- 
der, and  that  harvests  are  snatched 
from  us  that  they  may  feed  invisible 
people.  But  the  meaning  of  the  book 
must  be  different,  for  only  fools  and 


16  THE  SOUR-GLA8B 

women  have  thoughts  like  that ;  their 
thoughts  were  never  written  upon  the 
walls  of  Babylon.  \He  sees  the  ANGEL.] 
What  are  you  ?  Who  are  you  ?  I 
think  I  saw  some  that  were  like  you 
in  my  dreams  when  I  was  a  child  — 
that  bright  thing,  that  dress  that  is 
the  colour  of  embers !  But  I  have  done 
with  dreams,  I  have  done  with  dreams. 

ANGEL.  I  am  the  Angel  of  the 
Most  High  God. 

WISE  MAN.  Why  have  you  come  to 
me? 

ANGEL.  I  have  brought  you  a  mes- 
sage. 

WISE  MAN.  What  message  have  you 
got  for  me? 


THE  HOUR-GLASS  17 

ANGEL.  You  will  die  within  the  hour. 
You  will  die  when  the  last  grains  have 
fallen  in  this  glass.  \He  turns  the  hour- 
glass.^ 

WISE  MAN.  My  time  to  die  has  not 
come.  I  have  my  pupils.  I  have  a 
young  wife  and  children  that  I  cannot 
leave.  Why  must  I  die? 

ANGEL.  You  must  die  because  no 
souls  have  passed  over  the  threshold  of 
heaven  since  you  came  into  this  coun- 
try. The  threshold  is  grassy,  and  the 
gates  are  rusty,  and  the  angels  that 
keep  watch  there  are  lonely. 

WISE  MAN.  Where  will  death  bring 
me  to  ? 

ANGEL.     The    doors    of    heaven    will 


18  THE  HOUR-GLASS 

not  open  to  you,  for  you  have  denied  the 
existence  of  heaven ;  and  the  doors  of 
purgatory  will  not  open  to  you,  for  you 
have  denied  the  existence  of  purgatory. 

WISE  MAN.  But  I  have  also  denied 
the  existence  of  hell ! 

ANGEL.  Hell  is  the  place  of  those 
who  deny. 

WISE  MAN  [kneels].  I  have  indeed 
denied  everything  and  have  taught 
others  to  deny.  I  have  believed  in 
nothing  but  what  my  senses  told  me. 
But,  oh !  beautiful  Angel,  forgive  me, 
forgive  me  ! 

ANGEL.  You  should  have  asked  for- 
giveness long  ago. 

WISE  MAN.     Had    I    seen    your    face 


THE  HOUR-GLASS  19 

as  I  see  it  now,  oh !  beautiful  Angel, 
I  would  have  believed,  I  would  have 
asked  forgiveness.  Maybe  you  do  not 
know  how  easy  it  is  to  doubt.  Storm, 
death,  the  grass  rotting,  many  sick- 
nesses, those  are  the  messengers  that 
came  to  me.  Oh !  why  are  you  silent  ? 
You  carry  the  pardon  of  the  Most 
High ;  give  it  to  me !  I  would  kiss 
your  hands  if  I  were  not  afraid  —  no, 
no,  the  hem  of  your  dress ! 

ANGEL.  You  let  go  undying  hands 
too  long  ago  to  take  hold  of  them  now. 

WISE  MAN.  You  cannot  understand. 
You  live  in  that  country  people  only 
see  in  their  dreams.  You  live  in  a 
country  that  we  can  only  dream  about. 


20  THE  HOUR-QLA88 

Maybe  it  is  as  hard  for  you  to  under- 
stand why  we  disbelieve  as  it  is  for  us 
to  believe.  Oh !  what  have  I  said ! 
You  know  everything !  Give  me  time 
to  undo  what  I  have  done.  Give  me 
a  year  —  a  month  —  a  day  —  an  hour  ! 
Give  me  to  this  hour's  end,  that  I  may 
undo  what  I  have  done! 

ANGEL.  You  cannot  undo  what  you 
have  done.  Yet  I  have  this  power 
with  my  message.  If  you  can  find 
one  that  believes  before  the  hour's  end, 
you  shall  come  to  heaven  after  the 
years  of  purgatory.  For,  from  one  fiery 
seed,  watched  over  by  those  that  sent 
me,  the  harvest  can  come  again  to  heap 
the  golden  threshing-floor.  But  now 


THE  HOUR-GLASS  21 

farewell,  for  I  am  weary  of  the  weight 
of  time. 

WISE  MAN.  Blessed  be  the  Father, 
blessed  be  the  Son,  blessed  be  the 
Spirit,  blessed  be  the  Messenger  They 
have  sent! 

ANGEL  [at  the  door  and  pointing  at  the 
hour-glass].  In  a  little  while  the  upper- 
most glass  will  be  empty.  [Goes  out.] 

WISE  MAN.  Everything  will  be  well 
with  me.  I  will  call  my  pupils;  they 
only  say  they  doubt.  [Pulls  the  bell."] 
They  will  be  here  in  a  moment.  I 
hear  their  feet  outside  on  the  path. 
They  want  to  please  me ;  they  pretend 
that  they  disbelieve.  Belief  is  too  old 
to  be  overcome  all  in  a  minute.  Be- 


22  THE  HOUR-GLASS 

sides,  I  can  prove  what  I  once  dis- 
proved. [Another  pull  at  the  bell.']  They 
are  coming  now.  I  will  go  to  my 
desk.  I  will  speak  quietly,  as  if  noth- 
ing had  happened.  \He  stands  at  the 
desk  with  a  fixed  look  in  his  eyes.~^ 
Enter  PUPILS  and  the  FOOL. 

FOOL.  Leave  me  alone.  Leave  me 
alone.  Who  is  that  pulling  at  my  bag? 
King's  son,  do  not  pull  at  my  bag. 

A  YOUNG  MAN.  Did  your  friends 
the  angels  give  you  that  bag?  Why 
don't  they  fill  your  bag  for  you? 

FOOL.  Give  me  pennies !  Give  me 
some  pennies  ! 

A  YOUNG  MAN.  Let  go  his  cloak,  it 
is  coming  to  pieces.  What  do  you 


THE  HOUE-GLAS8  23 

want  pennies  for,  with  that  great  bag 
at  your  waist  ? 

FOOL.  I  want  to  buy  bacon  in  the 
shops,  and  nuts  in  the  market,  and 
strong  drink  for  the  time  when  the  sun 
is  weak,  and  snares  to  catch  rabbits  and 
the  squirrels  that  steal  the  nuts,  and 
hares,  and  a  great  pot  to  cook  them  in. 

A  YOUNG  MAN.  Why  don't  your 
friends  tell  you  where  buried  treasures 
are? 

ANOTHER.  Why  don't  they  make 
you  dream  about  treasures  ?  If  one 
dreams  three  times,  there  is  always 
treasure. 

FOOL  [holding  out  his  Jiaf\.  Give  me 
pennies  !  Give  me  pennies  1 


24  THE  HOUR-GLASS 

They  throw  pennies  into  his  hat.  HA 
is  standing  close  to  the  door,  that  he  may 
hold  out  his  hat  to  each  newcomer. 

A  YOUNG  MAN.  Master,  will  you 
have  Teigue  the  Fool  for  a  scholar? 

ANOTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  Teigue,  will 
you  give  us  your  pennies  if  we  teach 
you  lessons?  No,  he  goes  to  school 
for  nothing  on  the  mountains.  Tell  us 
what  you  learn  on  the  mountains, 
Teigue  ? 

WISE  MAN.  Be  silent  all.  \He  has 
leen  standing  silent,  looking  away.~\ 
Stand  still  in  your  places,  for  there 
is  something  I  would  have  you  tell 
me. 

A    moment's   pause.      They    all    stand 


THE  HOUR-GLASS  25 

round  in  their  places.  Teigue  still  stands 
at  the  door. 

WISE  MAN.  Is  there  anyone 
amongst  you  who  believes  in  God  ? 
In  heaven  ?  Or  in  purgatory  ?  Or  in 
hell? 

ALL  THE  YOUNG  MEN.  No  one,  Mas- 
ter !  No  one ! 

WISE  MAN.  I  knew  you  would  all 
say  that ;  but  do  not  be  afraid.  I 
will  not  be  angry.  Tell  me  the  truth. 
Do  you  not  believe  ? 

A  YOUNG  MAN.  We  once  did,  but 
you  have  taught  us  to  know  better. 

WISE  MAN.  Oh  !  teaching,  teaching 
does  not  go  very  deep  !  The  heart  re- 
mains unchanged  under  it  all.  You 


26  THE  HOUR-GLASS 

believe    just    as    you    always    did,    and 
you  are  afraid  to  tell  me. 

A  YOUNG  MAN.     No,  no,  Master. 

WISE  MAN.  If  you  tell  me  that 
you  believe  I  shall  be  glad  and  not 
angry. 

A  YOUNG  MAN  [to  Ms  -neighbour]. 
He  wants  somebody  to  dispute  with. 

His  NEIGHBOUR.  I  knew  that  from 
the  beginning. 

A  YOUNG  MAN.  That  is  not  the 
subject  for  to-day  ;  you  were  going  to 
talk  about  the  words  the  beggar  wrote 
upon  the  walls  of  Babylon. 

WISE  MAN.  If  there  is  one  amongst 
you  that  believes,  he  will  be  my  best 
friend.  Surely  there  is  one  amongst 


THE  HOUR-GLASS  27 

you.  [They  are  all  silent.']  Surely 
what  you  learned  at  your  mother's 
knees  has  not  been  so  soon  forgotten. 

A  YOUNG  MAN.  Master,  till  you 
came,  no  teacher  in  this  land  was  able 
to  get  rid  of  foolishness  and  ignorance. 
But  every  one  has  listened  to  you, 
every  one  has  learned  the  truth.  You 
have  had  your  last  disputation. 

ANOTHER.  What  a  fool  you  made 
of  that  monk  in  the  market-place ! 
He  had  not  a  word  to  say. 

WISE  MAN  [comes  from  his  desk  and 
stands  among  them  in  the  middle  of  the 
roorn^.  Pupils,  dear  friends,  I  have  de- 
ceived you  all  this  time.  It  was  I 
myself  who  was  ignorant.  There  is  a 


28  THE  HOUR-GLASS 

God.  There  is  a  heaven.  There  is 
fire  that  passes,  and  there  is  fire  that 
lasts  for  ever. 

Teigue,  through  all  this,  is  sitting  on 
a  stool  by  the  door,  reckoning  on  his  fin- 
gers what  he  will  buy  with  his  money. 

A  YOUNG  MAN  [to  another^.  He  will 
not  be  satisfied  till  we  dispute  with 
him.  [To  the  WISE  MAN]  Prove  it, 
Master.  Have  you  seen  them  ? 

WISE  MAN  [in  a  low,  solemn  voice"]. 
Just  now,  before  you  came  in,  some  one 
came  to  the  door,  and  when  I  looked 
up  I  saw  an  angel  standing  there. 

A  YOUNG  MAN.  You  were  in  a 
dream.  Anybody  can  see  an  angel  in 
his  dreams. 


THE  HOUR-GLASS  29 

WISE  MAN.  Oh,  my  God !  It  was 
not  a  dream.  I  was  awake,  waking  as 
I  am  now.  I  tell  you  I  was  awake 
as  I  am  now. 

A  YOUNG  MAN.  Some  dream  when 
they  are  awake,  but  they  are  the  crazy, 
and  who  would  believe  what  they  say? 
Forgive  me,  Master,  but  that  is  what 
you  taught  me  to  say.  That  is  what 
you  said  to  the  monk  when  he  spoke 
of  the  visions  of  the  saints  and  the 
martyrs. 

ANOTHER  YOUNG  MAN.  You  see  how 
well  we  remember  your  teaching. 

WISE  MAN.  Out,  out  from  my 
sight !  I  want  some  one  with  belief. 
I  must  find  that  grain  the  Angel  spoke 


30  THE  HOUR-GLASS 

of  before  I  die.  I  tell  you  I  must 
find  it,  and  you  answer  me  with  argu- 
ments. Out  with  you,  or  I  will  beat  you 
with  my  stick  !  [The  young  men  laugh.^ 

A  YOUNG  MAN.  How  well  he  plays 
at  faith  !  He  is  like  the  monk  when 
he  had  nothing  more  to  say. 

WISE  MAN.  Out,  out,  or  I  will  lay 
this  stick  about  your  shoulders !  Out 
with  you,  though  you  are  a  King's 
son  !  [They  begin  to  hurry  out.^ 

A  YOUNG  MAN.  Come,  come ;  he 
wants  us  to  find  some  one  who  will 
dispute  with  him.  [All  go  out.^ 

WISE  MAN.  [Alone.  He  goes  to  the 
door  at  the  side.~]  I  will  call  my  wife. 
She  will  believe  ;  women  always  be- 


THE  HOUR-GLASS  31 

lieve.  [He  opens  the  door  and  calls.~\ 
Bridget  !  Bridget !  [BRIDGET  comes  in 
wearing  her  apron,  her  sleeves  turned  up 
from  her  floury  arms.l  Bridget,  tell 
me  the  truth ;  do  not  say  what  you 
think  will  please  me.  Do  you  some- 
times say  3Tour  prayers  ? 

BRIDGET.  Prayers !  No,  you  taught 
me  to  leave  them  off  long  ago.  At 
first  I  was  sorry,  but  I  am  glad  now, 
for  I  am  sleepy  in  the  evenings. 

WISE  MAN.  But  do  you  not  believe 
in  God? 

BRIDGET.  Oh,  a  good  wife  only  be- 
lieves what  her  husband  tells  her ! 

WISE  MAN.  But  sometimes  when 
you  are  alone,  when  I  am  in  the  school 


32  THE  HOUR-GLASS 

and  the  children  asleep,  do  you  not 
think  about  the  saints,  about  the  things 
you  used  to  believe  in  ?  What  do  you 
think  of  when  you  are  alone  ? 

BRIDGET  [considering].  I  think  about 
nothing.  Sometimes  I  wonder  if  the 
pig  is  fattening  well,  or  I  go  out  to 
see  if  the  crows  are  picking  up  the 
chickens'  food. 

WISE  MAN.  Oh,  what  can  I  do !  Is 
there  nobody  who  believes?  I  must 
go  and  find  somebody !  \_IIe  goes 
toward  the  door  but  stops  with  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  hour-glass]  I  cannot  go 
out ;  I  cannot  leave  that ! 

BRIDGET.  You  want  somebody  to  get 
up  an  argument  with. 


THE  HOUR-GLASS  33 

WISE  MAN.  Oh,  look  out  of  the  door 
and  tell  me  if  there  is  anybody  there  in 
the  street.  I  cannot  leave  this  glass ; 
somebody  might  shake  it !  Then  the 
sand  would  fall  more  quickly. 

BRIDGET.  I  don't  understand  what 
you  are  saying.  [Looks  out.^  There  is  a 
great  crowd  of  people  talking  to  your 
pupils. 

WISE  MAN.  Oh,  run  out,  Bridget, 
and  see  if  they  have  found  somebody 
that  believes! 

BRIDGET  ^wiping  her  arms  in  her 
apron  and  pulling  down  her  sleeves^. 
It's  a  hard  thing  to  be  married  to  a 
man  cf  learning  that  must  be  always 
having  arguments.  [Goes  out  and  shouts 


34  THE  HOUR-GLASS 

through  the  kitchen  door.]  Don't  be 
meddling  with  the  bread,  children, 
while  I'm  out. 

WISE  MAN  [kneels  down].  "  Salvum 
me  fac.  Dens  —  salvum  —  salvum.  ..."  I 
have  forgotten  it  all.  It  is  thirty  years 
since  I  have  said  a  prayer.  I  must 
pray  in  the  common  tongue,  like  a 
clown  begging  in  the  market,  like 
Teigue  the  Fool !  [He  prays.']  Help 
me,  Father,  Son,  and  Spirit ! 

BRIDGET  enters,  followed  by  the  FOOL, 
who  is  holding  out  his  hat  to  her. 

FOOL.  Give  me  something ;  give  me 
a  penny  to  buy  bacon  in  the  shops,  and 
nuts  in  the  market,  and  strong  drink 
for  the  time  when  the  sun  grows  weak. 


THE  HOUR-GLASS  35 

4 

BRIDGET.  I  have  no  pennies.  [To 
the  WISE  MAN.]  Your  pupils  cannot 
find  anybody  to  argue  with  you.  There 
is  nobody  in  the  whole  country  who 
had  enough  belief  to  fill  a  pipe  with 
since  you  put  down  the  monk.  Can't 
you  be  quiet  now  and  not  always  be 
wanting  to  have  arguments?  It  must 
be  terrible  to  have  a  mind  like  that. 

WISE  MAN.     I  am  lost !     I   am  lost ! 

BRIDGET.  Leave  me  alone  now ;  I 
have  to  make  the  bread  for  you  and 
the  children. 

WISE  MAN.  Out  of  this,  woman,  out 
of  this,  I  say !  [BRIDGET  goes  through 
the  kitchen  door.^  Will  nobody  find  a 
way  to  help  me !  But  she  spoke  of 


36  THE  HOUB-GLASS 

my  children.  I  had  forgotten  them. 
They  will  believe.  It  is  only  those 
who  have  reason  that  doubt ;  the 
young  are  full  of  faith.  Bridget, 
Bridget,  send  my  children  to  me ! 

BRIDGET  [inside'j.  Your  father  wants 
you ;  run  to  him  now.  [ The  two  chil- 
dren come  in.  They  stand  together  a 
little  way  from  the  threshold  of  the 
kitchen  door,  looking  timidly  at  their 
father.^ 

WISE  MAN.  Children,  what  do  you 
believe  ?  Is  there  a  heaven  ?  Is  there 
a  hell  ?  Is  there  a  purgatory  ? 

FIRST  CHILD.  We  haven't  forgotten, 
father. 

THE    OTHER    CHILD.      O    no,    father. 


THE  HOUR-GLASS  37 

[They  loth  speak  together  as  if  in  school.'} 
There  is  no  heaven ;  there  is  no  hell ; 
there  is  nothing  we  cannot  see. 

FIRST  CHILD.  Foolish  people  used  to 
think  that  there  were,  but  you  are  very 
learned  and  you  have  taught  us  better. 

WISE  MAN.  You  are  just  as  bad  as 
the  others,  just  as  bad  as  the  others ! 
Out  of  the  room  with  you,  out  of  the 
room !  [The  children  begin  to  cry  and 
run  away.~\  Go  away,  go  away !  I  will 
teach  you  better  —  no,  I  will  never 
teach  you  again.  Go  to  your  mother  — 
no,  she  will  not  be  able  to  teach  them. 
.  .  .  Help  them,  0  God !  [Alone]  The 
grains  are  going  very  quickly.  There 
is  very  little  sand  in  the  uppermost 


38  THE  HOUR-GLASS 

glass.  Somebody  will  come  for  me  in 
a  moment;  perhaps  he  is  at  the  door 
now !  All  creatures  that  have  reason 
doubt.  0  that  the  grass  and  the 
planets  could  speak !  Somebody  has 
said  that  they  would  wither  if  they 
doubted.  0  speak  to  me,  0  grass 
blades !  0  fingers  of  God's  certainty, 
speak  to  me.  You  are  millions  and 
you  will  not  speak.  I  dare  not  know 
the  moment  the  messenger  will  come 
for  me.  I  will  cover  the  glass.  \He 
covers  it  and  brings  it  to  the  desk,  and 
the  FOOL  is  sitting  by  the  door  fiddling 
with  some  flowers  which  he  has  stuck  in 
his  hat.  lie  has  begun  to  blow  a  dande- 
lion head.^  What  are  you  doing  ? 


THE  HOUR-GLASS  39 

FOOL.  Wait  a  moment.  [He  llows.^ 
Four,  five,  six. 

WISE  MAN.  What  are  you  doing 
that  for? 

FOOL.  I  am  blowing  at  the  dande- 
lion to  find  out  what  time  it  is. 

WISE  MAN.  You  have  heard  every- 
thing !  That  is  why  you  want  to  find 
out  what  hour  it  is  !  You  are  waiting 
to  see  them  coming  through  the  door 
to  carry  me  away.  [FooL  goes  on  blow- 
ing.^  Out  through  the  door  with  you ! 
I  will  have  no  one  here  when  they 
come,  [fie  seizes  the  FOOL  ~by  the  shoul- 
ders, and  begins  to  force  him  out  through 
the  door,  then  suddenly  changes  his  mind^\ 
No,  I  have  something  to  ask  you.  [He 


40  THE  HOUR-GLASS 

drags  him  back  into  the  room.~\  Is  there 
a  heaven  ?  Is  there  a  hell  ?  Is  there 
a  purgatory  ? 

FOOL.  So  you  ask  me  now.  I 
thought  when  you  were  asking  your 
pupils,  I  said  to  myself,  if  he  would 
ask  Teigue  the  Fool,  Teigue  could  tell 
him  all  about  it,  for  Teigue  has  learned 
all  about  it  when  he  has  been  cutting 
the  nets. 

WISE  MAN.     Tell  me  ;    tell  me  ! 

FOOL.  I  said,  Teigue  knows  every- 
thing. Not  even  the  owls  and  the 
hares  that  milk  the  cows  have  Teigue's 
wisdom.  But  Teigue  will  not  speak ; 
he  says  nothing. 

WISE  MAN.     Tell    me,  tell  me  !     For 


THE  HOUR-GLASS  41 

under  the  cover  the  grains  are  falling, 
and  when  they  are  all  fallen  I  shall  die  ; 
and  my  soul  will  be  lost  if  I  have  not 
found  somebody  that  believes  !  Speak, 
speak ! 

FOOL  ^looking  wise].  No,  no,  I 
won't  tell  you  what  is  in  my  mind, 
and  I  won't  tell  you  what  is  in  my 
bag.  You  might  steal  away  my 
thoughts.  I  met  a  bodach  on  the  road 
yesterday,  and  he  said,  "  Teigue,  tell 
me  how  many  pennies  are  in  your 
bag.  I  will  wager  three  pennies  that 
there  are  not  twenty  pennies  in  your 
bag ;  let  me  put  in  my  hand  and  count 
them."  But  I  pulled  the  strings 
tighter,  like  this ;  and  when  I  go  to 


42  THE  HOUR-GLASS 

sleep  every  night  I  hide  the  bag  where 
no  one  knows. 

WISE  MAN  [goes  toward  the  hour- 
glass as  if  to  uncover  if\.  No,  no,  I 
have  not  the  courage !  [He  kneels.^ 
Have  pity  upon  me,  Fool,  and  tell 
me! 

FOOL.  Ah !  Now,  that  is  different. 
I  am  not  afraid  of  you  now.  But 
I  must  come  near  you;  somebody 
in  there  might  hear  what  the  Angel 
said. 

WISE  MAN.  Oh,  what  did  the  Angel 
tell  you? 

FOOL.  Once  I  was  alone  on  the 
hills,  and  an  Angel  came  by  and  he 
said,  "  Teigue  the  Fool,  do  not  forget 


THE  HOUR-GLASS  43 

the  Three  Fires :  the  Fire  that  punishes, 
the  Fire  that  purifies,  and  the  Fire 
wherein  the  soul  rejoices  for  ever !  " 

WISE  MAN.  He  believes !  I  am 
saved !  Help  me.  The  sand  has  run 
out.  I  am  dying.  .  .  .  [FooL  helps  him 
to  his  chair.']  I  am  going  from  the 
country  of  the  seven  wandering  stars, 
and  I  am  going  to  the  country  of  ,  the 
fixed  stars!  Ring  the  bell.  [FooL 
rings  the  bell.']  Are  they  coming  ?  Ah  ! 
now  I  hear  their  feet.  ...  I  will 
speak  to  them.  I  understand  it  all 
now.  One  sinks  in  on  God ;  we  do 
not  see  the  truth ;  God  sees  the  truth 
in  us.  I  cannot  speak,  I  am  too  weak. 
Tell  them,  Fool,  that  when  the  life 


44  THE  HOUR-GLASS 

and  the  mind  are  broken,  the  truth 
comes  through  them  like  peas  through 
a  broken  peascod.  But  no,  I  will  pray 
—  yet  I  cannot  pray.  Pray,  Fool,  that 
they  may  be  given  a  sign  and  save 
their  souls  alive.  Your  prayers  are 
better  than  mine. 

FOOL  bows  Ms  head.  WISE  MAN'S 
head  sinks  on  his  arm  on  the  books. 
PUPILS  enter. 

A  YOUNG  MAN.  Look  at  the  Fool 
turned  bell-ringer ! 

ANOTHER.  What  have  you  called  us 
in  for,  Teigue  ?  What  are  you  going 
to  tell  us? 

ANOTHER.  No  wonder  he  has  had 
dreams !  See,  he  is  fast  asleep  now. 


THE  HOUR-GLASS  45 

[Goes  over  and  touches  the  WISE    MAN.] 
Oh,  he  is  dead ! 

FOOL.  Do  not  stir !  He  asked  for  a 
sign  that  you  might  be  saved.  [All 
are  silent  for  a  moment.^  Look  what 
has  come  from  his  mouth  ...  a  little 
winged  thing  ...  a  little  shining  thing. 
It  has  gone  to  the  door.  [The  ANGEL 
appears  in  the  doorway,  stretches  out  her 
hands  and  closes  them  again]  The  Angel 
has  taken  it  in  her  hands  .  .  .  she  will 
open  her  hands  in  the  Garden  of  Para- 
dise. [They  all  kneel.] 

CUBTAIN 


CATHLEEN   NI   HOOLIHAN 


PERSONS 

PETER  GILLANE 

MICHAEL  GILLANE.  — His  son,  going  to  be  married 

PATRICK  GILLANE.  — A  lad  of  twelve,  MICHAEL'S  brother 

BRIDGET  GILLANE.  —  Peter's  wife 

DELIA  CAHEL.  —  Engaged  to  MICHABL 

THE  POOR  OLD  WOMAN 

NEIGHBOURS 


CATHLEEN  NI  HOOLIHAN 

SCENE  :  Interior  of  a  cottage  close  to  Kil- 
lala,  in  1798.  BRIDGET  is  standing  at 
a  table  undoing  a  parcel.  PETEB  is 
sitting  at  one  side  of  the  fire,  PATRICK 
at  the  other. 

PETER.     What  is  that  sound  I  hear? 

PATRICK.  I  don't  hear  anything.  ^He 
listens.^  I  hear  it  now.  It's  like  cheer- 
ing. [He '  goes  to  the  window  and  looks 
out.^  I  wonder  what  they  are  cheering 
about.  I  don't  see  anybody. 

PETER.     It  might  be  a  hurling  match. 

B  49 


50  CATHLEEN  NI  HOOLIHAN 

PATRICK.  There's  no  hurling  to-day.  It 
must  be  down  in  the  town  the  cheering  is. 

BRIDGET.  I  suppose  the  boys  must 
be  having  seme  sport  of  their  own. 
Come  over  here,  Peter,  and  look  at 
Michael's  wedding  clothes. 

PETER  [shifts  his  chair  to  table^.  Those 
are  grand  clothes,  indeed. 

BRIDGET.  You  hadn't  clothes  like 
that  when  you  married  me,  and  no  coat 
to  put  on  of  a  Sunday  more  than  any 
other  day. 

PETER.  That  is  true,  indeed.  We 
never  thought  a  son  of  our  own  would 
be  wearing  a  suit  of  that  sort  at  his 
wedding,  or  have  so  good  a  place  to 
bring  a  wife  to. 


CATHLEEN  Nl  HOOLIHAN  51 

PATRICK  [who  is  still  at  the  window^. 
There  is  an  old  woman  coming  down  the 
road.  I  don't  know  is  it  here  she's  coming. 

BRIDGET.  It  will  be  a  neighbour 
coming  to  hear  about  Michael's  wed- 
ding. Can  you  see  who  it  is  ? 

PATRICK.  I  think  it  is  a  stranger, 
and  she's  not  coming  to  the  house.  She 
has  not  turned  up  the  path.  She's 
turned  into  the  gap  that  goes  down 
where  Maurteen  and  his  sons  are  shear- 
ing sheep.  [He  turns  towards  them^  Do 
you  remember  what  Winnie  of  the 
Cross  Roads  was  saying  the  other  night 
about  the  strange  woman  that  goes 
through  the  country  the  time  there's 
war  or  trouble  coming? 


52  CATHLEEN  NI  HOOLIHAN 

BRIDGET.  Don't  be  bothering  us 
about  Winnie's  talk  but  go  and  open 
the  door  for  your  brother.  I  hear  him 
coming  up  the  path. 

PETER.  I  hope  he  has  brought  De- 
lia's fortune  with  him  safe,  for  fear 
her  people  might  go  back  of  the  bar- 
gain, and  I  after  making  it.  Trouble 
enough  I  had  making  it.  [PATRICK 
opens  the  door,  and  MICHAEL  comes  m.] 

BRIDGET.  What  kept  you,  Michael? 
We  were  looking  out  for  you  this  long 
time. 

MICHAEL.  I  went  round  by  the 
priest's  house  to  bid  him  be  ready  to 
marry  us  to-morrow. 

BRIDGET.     Did  he  say  anything? 


CATHLEEN  NI  HOOLIHAN  53 

MICHAEL.  He  said  it  was  a  very 
nice  match,  and  that  he  was  never 
better  pleased  to  marry  any  two  in  his 
parish  than  myself  and  Delia  Cahel. 

PETER.  Have  you  got  the  fortune, 
Michael  ? 

MICHAEL.  Here  it  is.  [He  puts 
bag  on  the  table  and  goes  over  and  leans 
against  chimney  jamb.] 

BRIDGET,  who  has  been  all  this  time 
examining  the  clothes,  pulling  the  seams, 
and  trying  the  lining  of  the  pockets,  etc., 
puts  the  clothes  on  the  dresser. 

PETER  [getting  up  and  taking  the  bag 
in  his  hand  and  turning  out  the  money]. 
Yes,  I  made  the  bargain  well  for  you, 
Michael.  Old  John  Cahel  would  sooner 


54  CATHLEEN  NI  HOOLIHAN 

have  kept  a  share  of  this  a  while 
longer.  "  Let  me  keep  the  half  of  it 
till  the  first  boy  is  born,"  says  he. 
"  You  will  not,"  says  I.  « Whether 
there  is  or  is  not  a  boy,  the  whole 
hundred  pounds  must  be  in  Michael's 
hands  before  he  brings  your  daughter 
to  the  house."  The  wife  spoke  to  him 
then,  and  he  gave  in  at  the  end. 

BRIDGET.  You  seem  well  pleased  to 
be  handling  the  money,  Peter. 

PETER.  Indeed,  I  wish  I'd  had  the 
luck  to  get  a  hundred  pounds,  or 
twenty  pounds  itself,  with  the  wife  I 
married. 

BRIDGET.  Well,  if  I  didn't  bring 
much,  I  didn't  get  much.  What  had 


CATHLEEN  NI  HOOLIHAN  55 

you  the  day  I  married  you  but  a  flock 
of  hens  and  you  feeding  them,  and  a 
few  lambs  and  you  driving  them  to 
the  market  at  Ballina  ?  [She  is  vexed, 
<md  H>cmgs  a  jug  on  the  dresser.^  If  I 
brought  no  fortune  I  worked  it  out  in 
my  bones,  laying  down  the  baby  — 
Michael,  that  is  standing  there  now  — 
on  a  stook  of  straw,  while  I  dug  the 
potatoes,  and  never  asking  big  dresses 
or  anything  but  to  be  working. 

PETEK.  That  is  true,  indeed.  [He 
pats  her  arm.~^ 

BRIDGET.  Leave  me  alone  now  till 
I  ready  the  house  for  the  woman  that 
is  to  come  into  it. 

PETER.     You  are  the  best  woman  in 


56  CATHLEEN  NI  HOOLIHAN 

Ireland,  but  money  is  good,  too.  [Hi 
begins  handling  the  money  again  and  sits 
down.~^  I  never  thought  to  see  so 
much  money  within  my  four  walls. 
We  can  do  great  things  now  we  have 
it.  We  can  take  the  ten  acres  of  land 
we  have  a  chance  of  since  Jamsie 
Dempsey  died,  and  stock  it.  We  will 
go  to  the  fair  of  Ballina  to  buy  the 
stock.  Did  Delia  ask  any  of  the 
money  for  her  own  use,  Michael? 

MICHAEL.  She  did  not,  indeed.  She 
did  not  seem  to  take  much  notice  of 
it,  or  to  look  at  it  at  all. 

BRIDGET.  That's  no  wonder.  Why 
would  she  look  at  it  when  she  had 
yourself  to  look  at  —  a  fine  strong 


CATHLEEN  NI  HOOLIHAN  57 

young  man.  It  is  proud  she  must  be 
to  get  you  —  a  good,  steady  boy,  that 
will  make  use  of  the  money,  and  will 
not  be  running  through  it,  or  spending 
it  on  drink,  like  another. 

PETER.  It's  likely  Michael  himself 
was  not  thinking  much  of  the  fortune 
either,  but  of  what  sort  the  girl  was 
to  look  at. 

MICHAEL  [coming  over  toward  the 
table].  Well,  you  would  like  a  nice 
comely  girl  to  be  beside  you,  and  to 
go  walking  with  you.  The  fortune 
only  lasts  for  a  while,  but  the  woman 
will  be  there  always. 

PATRICK  [turning  round  from  the 
window].  They  are  cheering  again 


58  CATHLEEN  NI  HOOLIHAN 

down  in  the  town.  Maybe  they  are 
landing  horses  from  Enniscrone.  They 
do  be  cheering  when  the  horses  take 
the  water  well. 

MICHAEL.  There  are  no  horses  in  it. 
Where  would  they  be  going  and  no 
fair  at  hand  ?  Go  down  to  the  town, 
Patrick,  and  see  what  is  going  on. 

PATRICK  [opens  the  door  to  go  out, 
but  stops  for  a  moment  on  the  threshold^. 
Will  Delia  remember,  do  you  think,  to 
bring  the  greyhound  pup  she  promised 
me  when  she  would  be  coming  to  the 
house  ? 

MICHAEL.  She  will,  surely.  [PATRICK 
goes  out,  leaving  the  door  open.~^ 

PETER.       It    will    be    Patrick's    turn 


CATHLEEN  NI  HOOLIHAN  59 

next  to  be  looking  for  a  fortune,  but 
he  won't  find  it  so  easy  to  get  it,  and 
he  with  no  place  of  his  own. 

BRIDGET.  I  do  be  thinking  some- 
times, now  things  are  going  so  well 
with  us,  and  the  Cahels  such  a  good 
back  to  us  in  the  district,  and  Delia's 
own  uncle  a  priest,  we  might  be  put 
in  the  way  of  making  Patrick  himself 
a  priest  some  day,  and  he  so  good  at 
his  books. 

PETER.  Time  enough,  time  enough ; 
you  have  always  your  head  full  of  plans. 

BRIDGET.  We  will  be  well  able  to 
give  him  learning,  and  not  to  send 
him  tramping  the  country  like  a  poor 
scholar  that  lives  on  charity. 


60  CATHLEEN  NI  HOOLJHAN 

MICHAEL.  They're  not  done  cheering 
yet.  [He  goes  over  to  the  door  and  stands 
there  for  a  moment,  putting  up  his  hand 
to  shade  his  eyes^ 

BRIDGET.     Do  you  see  anything? 

MICHAEL.  I  see  an  old  woman  com- 
ing up  the  path. 

BRIDGET.     Who  is  it,  I  wonder? 

MICHAEL.  I  don't  think  it's  one  of 
the  neighbours,  but  she  has  her  cloak 
over  her  face. 

BRIDGET.  Maybe  it's  the  same 
woman  Patrick  saw  a  while  ago.  It 
might  be  some  poor  woman  heard  we 
were  making  ready  for  the  wedding, 
and  came  to  look  for  her  share. 

PETER.      I     may    as    well     put     the 


CATHLEEN  NI  HOOLIHAN  61 

money  out  of  sight.  There's  no  use 
leaving  it  out  for  every  stranger  to 
look  at.  [He  goes  over  to  a  large  box 
by  the  wall,  opens  it  and  puts  the  bag  in, 
and  fumbles  with  the  Iock7\ 

MICHAEL.  There  she  is,  father !  [An 
OLD  WOMAN  passes  the  window  slowly. 
She  looks  at  MICHAEL  as  she  passes.^  I'd 
sooner  a  stranger  not  to  come  to  the 
house  the  night  before  the  wedding. 

BRIDGET.  Open  the  door,  Michael ; 
don't  keep  the  poor  woman  waiting. 
[The  OLD  WOMAN  comes  in;  MICHAEL 
stands  aside  to  make  way  for  her.~\ 

THE  POOR  OLD  WOMAN.  God  save 
all  here ! 

PETER.     God  save  you  kindly. 


62  CATHLEEN  NI  HOOLIHAN 

THE  POOR  OLD  WOMAN.  You  have 
good  shelter  here. 

PETER.  You  are  welcome  to  what- 
ever shelter  we  have. 

BRIDGET.  Sit  down  there  by  the  fire 
and  welcome. 

THE  POOR  OLD  WOMAN  [warming  her 
hands'^.  There's  a  hard  wind  outside. 

MICHAEL  watches  her  curiously  from 
the  door.  PETER  comes  over  to  the  table. 

PETER.  Have  you  travelled  far  to- 
day? 

THE  POOR  OLD  WOMAN.  I  have  trav- 
elled far,  very  far;  there  are  few  have 
travelled  so  far  as  myself. 

PETER.  It  is  a  pity,  indeed,  for  any 
person  to  have  no  place  of  their  own. 


CATHLEEN  NI  HOOLIHAN  63 

THE  POOR  OLD  WOMAN.  That  is  true 
for  you  indeed,  and  it  is  long  I  am  on 
the  road  since  I  first  went  wandering. 
It  is  seldom  I  have  any  rest. 

BRIDGET.  It  is  a  wonder  you  are  not 
worn  out  with  so  much  wandering. 

THE  POOR  OLD  WOMAN.      Sometimes 

%. 

my  feet  are  tired  and  my  hands  are 
quiet,  but  there  is  no  quiet  in  my  heart. 
When  the  people  see  me  quiet,  they  think 
old  age  has  come  on  me,  and  that  all  the 
stir  has  gone  out  of  me. 

BRIDGET.    What  was  it  put  you  astray? 

THE  POOR  OLD  WOMAN.  Too  many 
strangers  in  the  house. 

BRIDGET.  Indeed  you  look  as  if  you 
had  had  your  share  of  trouble. 


64  CATRLEEN  NI  HOOLIEAN 

THE  POOR  OLD  WOMAN.  I  have  had 
trouble  indeed. 

BRIDGET.  What  was  it  put  the 
trouble  on  you  ? 

THE  POOR  OLD  WOMAN.  My  land 
that  was  taken  from  me. 

PETER.  Was  it  much  land  they  took 
from  you? 

THE  POOR  OLD  WOMAN.  My  four 
beautiful  green  fields. 

PETER  [aside  to  BRIDGET].  Do  you 
think  could  she  be  the  Widow  Casey 
that  was  put  out  of  her  holding  at 
Kilglas  a  while  ago  ? 

BRIDGET.  She  is  not.  I  saw  the 
Widow  Casey  one  time  at  the  market 
in  Ballina,  a  stout,  fresh  woman. 


CATHLEEN  NI  HOOLIHAN  65 

PETER  \to  OLD  WOMAN].  Did  you 
hear  a  noise  of  cheering,  and  you  com- 
ing up  the  hill  ? 

THE  POOR  OLD  WOMAN.  I  thought  I 
heard  the  noise  I  used  to  hear  when  my 
friends  came  to  visit  me.  [She  begins 
singing  half  to  herself~\ 

I  will  go  cry  with  the  woman, 
For  yellow-haired  Donough  is  dead ; 
With  a  hempen  rope  for  a  neckcloth 
And  a  white  cloth  on  his  head. 

MICHAEL  [coming  from  the  door], 
What  is  that  you  are  singing,  ma'am  ? 

THE  POOR  OLD  WOMAN.  Singing  I 
am  about  a  man  I  knew  one  time,  yel- 
low-haired Donough,  that  was  hanged 


66  CATELEEN  NI  HOOLIHAN 

in  Galway.     [She  goes   on   singing    much 
louder^ 

I  am  come  to  cry  with  you,  woman, 
My  hair  is  unwound  and  unbound; 
I  remember  him  ploughing  his  field, 
Turning  up  the  red  side  of  the  ground. 

And  building  his  barn  on  the  hill 
With  the  good  mortared  stone ; 
O !  we'd  have  pulled  down  the  gallows 
Had  it  happened  in  Enhiscrone ! 

MICHAEL.  What  was  it  brought  him 
to  his  death  ? 

THE  POOR  OLD  WOMAN.  He  died  for 
love  of  me ;  many  a  man  has  died  for 
love  of  me. 

PETER  [aside  to  BRIDGET].  Her  trou- 
ble has  put  her  wits  astray. 


CATHLEEN  NI  HOOLIHAN  67 

MICHAEL.  Is  it  long  since  that  song 
was  made  ?  Is  it  long  since  he  got  his 
death  ? 

THE  POOR  OLD  WOMAN.  Not  long, 
not  long.  But  there  were  others  that 
died  for  love  of  me  a  long  time  ago. 

MICHAEL.  Were  they  neighbours  of 
your  own,  ma'am  ? 

THE  POOR  OLD  WOMAN.  Come  here 
beside  me  and  I'll  tell  you  about  them. 
[MICHAEL  sits  down  beside  her  at  the 
hearth,']  There  was  a  red  man  of  the 
O'Donells  from  the  North,  and  a  man 
of  the  O'Sullivans  from  the  South,  and 
there  was  one  Brian  that  lost  his  life 
at  Clontarf,  by  the  sea,  and  there  were 
a  great  many  in  the  West,  some  that 


68  CATHLEEN  NI  EOOLIHAN 

died  hundreds  of  years  ago,  and  there 
are  some  that  will  die  to-morrow. 

MICHAEL.  Is  it  in  the  West  that  men 
will  die  to-morrow  ? 

THE  POOR  OLD  WOMAN.  Come  nearer, 
nearer  to  me. 

BRIDGET.  Is  she  right,  do  you  think  ? 
or  is  she  a  woman  from  the  North  ? 

PETER.  She  doesn't  know  well  what 
she's  talking  about,  with  the  want  and 
the  trouble  she  has  gone  through. 

BRIDGET.  The  poor  thing,  we  should 
treat  her  well. 

PETER.  Give  her  a  drink  of  milk  and 
a  bit  of  the  oaten  cake. 

BRIDGET.  Maybe  we  should  give  her 
something  along  with  that  to  bring  her 


CATHLEEN  NI  HOOLIHAN  69 

on  her  way  —  a  few  pence,  or  a  shilling 
itself,  and  we  with  so  much  money  in 
the  house. 

PETER.  Indeed,  I'd  not  begrudge  it 
to  her  if  we  had  it  to  spare ;  but  if  we 
go  running  through  what  we  have,  wre'll 
soon  have  to  break  the  hundred  pounds, 
and  that  would  be  a  pity. 

BRIDGET.  Shame  on  you,  Peter.  Give 
her  the  shilling  and  your  blessing  with 
it,  or  our  own  luck  will  go  from  us. 

PETER  goes  to  the  ~box  and  takes  out  a 
shilling. 

BRIDGET  [to  the  OLD  WOMAN].  Will 
you  have  a  drink  of  milk  ? 

THE  POOR  OLD  WOMAN.  It  is  not 
food  or  drink  that  I  want. 


70  CATHLEEN  NI  HOOLIHAN 

PETER  [offering  the  shilling].  Here  is 
something  for  you. 

THE  POOR  OLD  WOMAN.  That  is 
not  what  I  want.  It  is  not  silver  I 
want. 

PETER.  What  is  it  you  would  be 
asking  for  ? 

THE  POOR  OLD  WOMAN.  If  anyone 
would  give  me  help  he  must  give  me 
himself,  he  must  give  me  all.  [PETER 
goes  over  to  the  table,  staring  at  the  shil- 
ling in  his  hand  in  a  bewildered  way  and 
stands  whispering  to  BRIDGET.] 

MICHAEL.  Have  you  no  man  of  your 
own,  ma'am  ? 

THE  POOR  OLD  WOMAN.  I  have  not. 
With  all  the  lovers  that  brought  me 


CATHLEEN  NI  HOOLIHAN  71 

their  love,  I  never   set  out  the  bed  for 
any. 

MICHAEL.  Are  you  lonely  going  the 
roads,  ma'am  ? 

THE  POOR  OLD  WOMAN.  I  have  my 
thoughts  and  I  have  my  hopes. 

MICHAEL.  What  hopes  have  you  to 
hold  to? 

THE  POOR  OLD  WOMAN.  The  hope 
of  getting  my  beautiful  fields  back 
again ;  the  hope  of  putting  the  stran 
gers  out  of  my  house. 

MICHAEL.  What  way  will  you  do 
that,  ma'am  ? 

THE  POOR  OLD  WOMAN.  I  have 
good  friends  that  will  help  me.  They 
are  gathering  to  help  me  now.  I  am 


72  CATHLEEN  NI  HOOLIHAN 

not  afraid.  If  they  are  put  down  to- 
day, they  will  get  the  upper  hand  to- 
morrow. [Sfie  gets  up.']  I  must  be 
going  to  meet  my  friends.  They  are 
coming  to  help  me,  and  I  must  be  there 
to  welcome  them.  I  must  call  the 
neighbours  together  to  welcome  them. 

MICHAEL.     I  will  go  with  you. 

BRIDGET.  It  is  not  her  friends  you 
have  to  go  and  welcome,  Michael ;  it  is 
the  girl  coming  into  the  house  you 
have  to  welcome.  You  have  plenty  to 
do ;  it  is  food  and  drink  you  have  to 
bring  to  the  house.  The  woman  that 
is  coming  is  not  coming  with  empty 
hands ;  you  would  not  have  an  empty 
house  before  her.  \To  the  OLD 


CATHLEEN  NI  HOOLIHAN  73 

WOMAN]  Maybe  you  don't  know, 
ma'am,  that  my  son  is  going  to  be 
married  to-morrow. 

THE  POOR  OLD  WOMAN.  It  is  not 
a  man  going  to  his  marriage  that  I 
look  to  for  help. 

PETER  [to  BRIDGET].  Who  is  she,  do 
you  think,  at  all  ? 

BRIDGET.  You  did  not  tell  us  your 
name  yet,  ma'am. 

THE  POOR  OLD  WOMAN.  Some  call 
me  the  Poor  Old  Woman,  and  there 
are  some  that  call  me  Cathleen  the 
daughter  of  Hoolihan. 

PETER.  I  think  I  knew  some  one  of 
that  name  once.  Who  was  it,  I  won- 
der ?  It  must  have  been  some  one  I 


74  CATHLEEN  NI  HOOLIHAN 

knew    when    I   was   a   boy.     No,    no,    I 
remember  I  heard  it  in  a  song. 

THE  POOR  OLD  WOMAN  [who  is  stanfc 
ing  in  the  doorway].  They  are  wonder- 
ing that  there  were  songs  made  for 
me ;  there  have  been  many  songs  made 
for  me.  I  heard  one  on  the  wind  this 
morning.  [She  sings] 

Do  not  make  a  great  keening 
When  the  graves  have  been  dug  to-morrow. 
Do  not  call  the  white-scarfed  riders 
To  the  burying  that  shall  be  to-morrow. 
Do  not  spread  food  to  call  strangers 
To  the  wakes  that  shall  be  to-morrow. 
Do  not  give  money  for  prayers 
For  the  dead  that  shall  die  to-morrow. 
They  will  have  no  need  of  prayers,  they  will 
have  no  need  of  prayers. 


CATHLEEN  NI  HOOLIHAN  75 

MICHAEL.  I  do  not  know  what  that 
song  means ;  but  tell  me  something  I 
can  do  for  you. 

PETER.     Come  over  to  me,  Michael. 

MICHAEL.  Hush,  father;  listen  to 
her. 

THE  POOR  OLD  WOMAN.  It  is  a 
hard  service  they  take  that  help  me. 
Many  that  are  red-cheeked  now  will  be 
pale-cheeked ;  many  that  have  been  free 
to  walk  the  hills  and  the  bogs  and 
the  rushes  will  be  sent  to  walk  hard 
streets  in  far  countries ;  many  a  good 
plan  will  be  broken ;  many  that  have 
gathered  money  will  not  stay  to  spend 
it ;  many  a  child  will  be  born  and 
there  will  be  no  father  at  its  christen- 


76  CATHLEEN  NI  HOOLIHAN 

ing  to  give  it  a  name.  They  that  had 
red  cheeks  will  have  pale  cheeks  for 
my  sake ;  and  for  all  that  they  will 
think  they  are  well  paid.  [She  goes  out. 
Her  voice  is  heard  outside  singing^ 

They  shall  be  remembered  for  ever 
They  shall  be  alive  for  ever 
They  shall  be  speaking  for  ever 
The  people  shall  hear  them  for  ever. 

BRIDGET  \to  PETER].  Look  at  him, 
Peter;  he  has  the  look  of  a  man  that 
has  got  the  touch.  [Raising  her  voice] 
Look  here,  Michael,  at  the  wedding 
clothes  [taking  clothes  from  dresser].  You 
have  a  right  to  fit  them  on  now.  It 
would  be  a  pity  to-morrow  if  they  did 


CATHLEEN  NI  HOOLIHAN  77 

not  fit;  the  boys  would  be  laughing  at 
you.  Take  them,  Michael,  and  go  into 
the  room  and  fit  them  on.  [She  puts 
them  on  his  arm.~^ 

MICHAEL.  What  wedding  are  you 
talking  of?  What  clothes  will  I  be 
wearing  to-morrow  ? 

BRIDGET.  These  are  the  clothes  you 
are  going  to  wear  when  you  marry 
Delia  Cahel  to-morrow. 

MICHAEL.  I  had  forgotten  that.  [He 
looks  at  the  clothes  and  turns  toward  the 
inner  room,  but  stops  at  the  sound  of 
cheering  outside.~\ 

PETER.  There  is  the  shouting  come 
to  our  own  door.  What  is  it  has 
happened  ? 


78  CATHLEEN  Nl  HOOLIHAN 

Neighbours  come  crowding  in,  PATRICK 
and  DELIA  with  them,. 

PATRICK.  There  are  ships  in  the 
bay ;  the  French  are  landing  at 
Killala. 

PETER  takes  his  pipe  from  his  mouth 
and  his  hat  off  and  stands  up.  The 
clothes  slip  from  MICHAEL'S  arm. 

DELIA.  Michael !  \He  takes  no  no- 
tice.^ Michael !  ]^He  turns  towards  her.^ 
Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  a  stran- 
ger? [She  drops  his  arm.  BRIDGET 
goes  over  toward  her.~^ 

PATRICK.  The  boys  are  all  hurrying 
down  the  hillsides  to  meet  the  French. 

DELIA.  Michael  won't  be  going  to 
join  the  French. 


CATHLEEN  NI  HOOLIHAN  79 

BRIDGET  [to  PETER].  Tell  him  not 
to  go,  Peter. 

PETER.  It's  no  use.  He  doesn't 
hear  a  word  we're  saying. 

BRIDGET.  Try,  Delia,  and  coax  him 
over  to  the  fire. 

DELIA.  Michael,  Michael,  you  won't 
leave  me !  You  won't  join  the  French 
and  we  going  to  be  married  to-mor- 
row !  [She  puts  her  arms  about  him. 
He  turns  to  her  as  if  about  to  yield.~^ 

OLD  WOMAN'S    voice  outside  — 

They  shall  be  remembered  for  ever 
The  people  shall  hear  them  for  ever. 

MICHAEL  breaks  away  from  DELIA 
and  goes  out. 


80  CATHLEEN  NI  HOOLIHAN 

BRIDGET  \laying  her  hand  on  PATRICK'S 
arm].  Did  you  see  an  old  woman 
going  down  the  path  ? 

PATRICK.  I  did  not,  but  I  saw  a 
young  girl  and  she  had  the  walk  of  a 
queen. 


A  POT   OF   BROTH 


PERSONS 

A  BEGGAKMAN 
JOHN  CONEELT 
SIBBY  CONEELT 


A  POT   OF  BEOTH 

SCENE  :  A  cottage  kitchen.  Fire  on  the 
hearth.  Table  with  cabbage,  a  plate  of 
meal,  etc.  Half -open  door. 

BEGGAR  [enters,  looks  about].  What 
sort  are  the  people  of  this  house, 
I  wonder  ?  Was  it  a  good  place 
for  me  to  come  to  look  for  my  din- 
ner, I  wonder  ?  What's  in  that  big 
pot  ?  [Lifts  cover.']  Nothing  at  all  ! 
What's  in  the  little  pot  ?  [Lifts  cover.] 
Nothing  at  all !  What's  in  that  bottle, 
I  wonder  ?  [  Takes  it  up  excitedly  and 

83 


84  A  POT  OF  BROTH 

smells.^  Milk !  milk  in  a  bottle !  1 
wonder  they  wouldn't  afford  a  tin  can 
to  milk  the  cow  into !  What's  in 
that  chest  ?  [Kneels  and  tries  to  lift 
cover .]  Locked !  [Smells  at  the  key-hole.^ 
There's  a  good  smell  there  —  there 
must  be  a  still  not  far  off.  [Gets  up 
and  sits  on  chest.~^ 

A  noise  heard  outside,  shouts,  footsteps, 
and  a  loud  frightened  cackling. 

BEGGAR.  What  in  the  earthly  world 
is  going  on  outside  ?  Anyone  would 
think  it  was  the  Fiannta  Eireann  at 
their  hunting ! 

SIBBY'S  VOICE.  Stop  the  gap,  let 
you  stop  the  gap,  John !  Stop  that 
old  schemer  of  a  hen  flying  up  on 


A  POT  OF  BROTH  85 

the  thatch  like  as  if  she  was  an 
eagle  ! 

JOHN'S  VOICE.  What  can  I  do, 
Sibby  ?  I  all  to  had  my  hand  on  her 
when  she  flew  away  ! 

SIBBY'S  VOICE.  She's  out  into  the 
garden !  Follow  after  her !  She  has 
the  wide  world  before  her  now  ! 

BEGGAR.  « Sibby,"  he  called  her.  I 
wonder  is  it  Sibby  Coneely's  house  I 
am  in  !  If  that's  so,  it's  a  bad  chance 
I  have  of  going  out  heavier  than  I 
came  in !  I  often  heard  of  her,  a 
regular  old  slave-driver  that  would 
starve  the  rats !  An  old  niggard  with 
her  eyes  on  kippeens,  that  would  skin 
a  flea  for  its  hide !  It  was  the  bad 


86  A  POT  OF  BROTH 

luck  of  the  world  brought  me  here, 
and  not  a  house  or  a  village  between 
this  and  Tubber.  And  it  isn't  much  I 
have  left  to  bring  me  on  there.  [Be- 
gins emptying  out  his  pockets  on  the 
chest,~^  There's  my  pipe,  and  not  a 
grain  to  fill  it  with !  There's  my 
handkerchief  that  I  got  at  the  Corona- 
tion dinner.  There's  my  knife,  and 
nothing  left  of  it  but  the  handle. 
[Shakes  the  pocket  out.~^  And  there's  the 
crumb  of  the  last  dinner  I  got,  and 
the  last  I'm  likely  to  get  till  to- 
morrow. That's  all  I  have  in  the 
world,  unless  the  stone  I  picked  up  to 
peg  at  that  yelping  dog  a  while  ago. 
[Takes  stone  out  of  other  pocket  and 


A  POT  OF  BROTH  87 

tosses  it  up  and  down.~^  In  the  time 
long  ago  I  usen't  to  have  much  trouble 
to  get  a  dinner,  getting  over  the  old 
women  and  getting  round  the  young 
ones  !  I  remember  the  time  I  met  the 
old  minister  on  the  path  and  sold  him 
his  own  flock  of  turkeys.  My  wits 
used  to  fill  my  stomach  then,  but  I'm 
afraid  they're  going  from  me  now  with 
all  the  hardship  I  went  through. 

Cackling  heard  again,  and  cries. 

SIBBY'S  VOICE.  Catch  her,  she's 
round  the  bush !  Put  your  hand  in 
the  nettles,  don't  be  daunted !  [J. 
choked  cackle  and  prolonged  screech.^ 

BEGGAR.  There's  a  dinner  for  some- 
body, anyway !  That  it  may  be  for 


88  A  POT  OF  BROTH 

myself !  How  will  I  come  round  her, 
I  wonder?  There  is  no  more  pity  in 
her  heart  than  there's  a  soul  in  a  dog. 
If  all  the  saints  were  standing  there 
barefoot,  she'd  bid  them  to  call  another 
day.  It's  myself  I  have  to  trust  now, 
and  my  share  of  talk.  [Looks  at  the 
stone.]  I  know  what  I'll  do ;  I  know 
what  a  friend  of  mine  did  one  time 
with  a  stone,  and  I'm  as  good  a  man 
as  he  is,  anyway.  [He  jumps  up  and 
waves  the  stone  over  his  head]  Now, 
Sibby  !  If  I  don't  do  it  one  way,  I'll 
do  it  another.  My  wits  against  the 
world  !  [Sings] 

There's  broth  in  the  pot  for  you,  old  man, 
There's  broth  in  the  pot  for  you,  old  man, 


A  POT  OF  BROTH  89 

There's  cabbage  for  me 

And  broth  for  you, 

And  beef  for  Jack  the  journeyman. 

I  wish  you  were  dead,  my  gay  old  man, 

I  wish  you  were  dead,  rny  gay  old  man, 

I  wish  you  were  dead, 

And  a  stone  at  your  head, 

And  I'd  marry  poor  Jack  the  journeyman. 

Voices  outside. 

JOHN'S  VOICE.  Bring  it  in,  bring  it 
in,  Sibby.  You'll  be  late  with  the 
priest's  dinner. 

SIBBY'S  VOICE.  Can't  you  wait  a 
minute  till  I  draw  it  ?  [Enter  JOHN.] 

JOHN.  I  didn't  know  there  was  any- 
one in  the  house. 

BEGGAR.       It's    only    this    minute    I 


90  A  POT  OF  BROTH 

came  in ;  tired  with  the  length  of  the 
road  I  am,  and  fasting  since  morning. 

JOHN  [begins  groping  among  the  pots 
and  pans].  I'll  see  can  I  find  any- 
thing here  for  you.  ...  I  don't  see 
much.  .  .  .  Maybe  there's  something 
in  the  chest. 

He  takes  key  from  a  hiding-place 
at  the  lack  of  the  hearth,  opens  chest, 
takes  out  bottle,  takes  out  ham  hone  and 
is  cutting  a  hit  from  it  when  SIBBY 
enters,  carrying  hen  by  the  neck. 

SIBBY.  Hurry,  now,  John,  after  all 
the  time  you  have  wasted.  Why 
didn't  you  steal  up  on  the  old  hen 
that  time  she  was  scratching  in  the 
dust? 


A   POT  OF  BROTH  91 

JOHN.  Sure,  I  thought  one  of  the 
chickens  would  be  the  tenderest. 

SIBBY.  Cock  you  up  with  tender- 
ness, indeed  !  All  the  expense  I'm  put 
to !  My  grand  hen  I  have  been  feeding 
these  five  years !  Wouldn't  that  have 
been  enough  to  part  with  ?  Indeed,  I 
wouldn't  have  thought  of  parting  with 
her  at  all,  but  she  had  got  tired  of 
laying  since  Easter. 

At  sound  of  her  voice  JOHN  has 
dropped  ham  bone  on  a  bench. 

JOHN.  Well,  I  thought  we  ought  to 
give  his  reverence  something  that  would 
have  a  little  good  in  it. 

SIBBY.  What  does  the  age  of  it 
matter?  A  hen's  a  hen  when  it's  on 


92  A  POT  OF  BROTH 

the  table.  [Sitting  down  to  pluck 
chicken^  Why  couldn't  the  Kernans 
have  given  the  priest  his  dinner,  the 
way  they  always  do  ?  What  did  it 
matter  their  mother's  brother  to  have 
died  ?  It  is  an  excuse  they  had  made 
up  to  put  the  expense  of  the  dinner 
on  me. 

JOHN.  Well,  I  hope  you  have  a  good 
bit  of  bacon  to  put  in  the  pot  along 
with  the  chicken. 

SIBBY.  Let  me  alone,  the  taste  of 
meat  on  the  knife  is  all  that  high-up 
people  like  the  clergy  care  for,  nice  gen- 
teel people,  no  way  greedy,  like  potato 
diggers  or  harvest  men. 

JOHN.      Well,    I  never   saw    the  man 


A  POT  OF  BROTH  93 

gentle  or  simple  wouldn't  be  glad  of 
his  fill  of  bacon  and  he  hungry. 

SIBBY.  Let  me  alone,  I'll  show  the 
Kernans  what  I  can  do.  I  have  what's 
better  than  bacon,  a  nice  bit  of  a  ham 
I  am  keeping  in  the  chest  this  good 
while,  thinking  we  might  want  it  for 
company.  [She  catches  sight  of  BEGGAR 
and  calls  out]  Who  is  there  ?  A  beggar- 
man,  is  it  ?  Then  you  may  quit  this 
house,  if  you  please ;  we  have  noth- 
ing for  you.  [She  gets  up  and  opens 
door.] 

BEGGAR  [comes  forward].  It  is  a  mis- 
take you  are  making,  ma'am ;  it  is  not 
asking  anything  I  am.  It  is  giving 
I  am  more  used  to.  I  was  never  in  a 


94  A   POT  OF  BROTH 

house  yet  but  there  would  be  a  wel- 
come for  me  in  it  again. 

SIBBY.  Well,  you  have  the  appear- 
ance of  a  beggar,  and  if  it  isn't  beg- 
ging you  are,  what  way  do  you  make 
your  living? 

BEGGAR.  If  I  was  a  beggar,  ma'am, 
it  is  to  common  people  I  would  be 
going  and  not  to  a  nice  grand  woman 
like  yourself,  that  is  only  used  to  be 
talking  with  high-up  noble  people. 

SIBBY.  Well,  what  is  it  you  are 
asking  ?  If  it's  a  bit  to  eat  you  want, 
I  can't  give  it  to  you,  for  I  have  com- 
pany coming  that  will  clear  all  before 
them. 

BEGGAR.       Is  it  me    to  ask   anything 


A   POT  OF  BROTH  95 

to  eat  ?  [Holds  up  stone.^  I  have  here 
what's  better  than  beef  and  mutton 
and  currant  cakes  and  sacks  of  flour. 

SIBBY.     What  is  it  all  ? 

BEGGAR  [mysteriously].  Those  that 
gave  it  to  me  wouldn't  like  me  to  tell 
that. 

SIBBY  [fc?  JOHN.]  Do  you  think  is 
he  a  man  that  has  friends  among  the 
Sidhe? 

JOHN.  Your  mind  is  always  running 
on  the  Sidhe  since  the  time  they  made 
John  Molloy  find  buried  gold  on  the 
bridge  of  Limerick.  I  see  nothing  in 
it  but  a  stone. 

BEGGAR.  What  can  you  see  in  it, 
you  that  never  saw  what  it  can  do? 


96  A  POT  OF  BROTH 

JOHN.     What  is  it  it  can  do  ? 

BEGGAR.  It  can  do  many  things, 
and  what  it's  going  to  do  now  is  to 
make  me  a  drop  of  broth  for  my 
dinner.  . 

SIBBY.  I'd  like  to  have  a  stone  that 
could  make  broth. 

BEGGAR.  No  one  in  the  world  but 
myself  has  one,  ma'am,  and  no  other 
stone  in  the  world  has  the  same  power, 
for  it  has  enchantment  on  it.  All  I'll 
ask  of  you  now,  ma'am,  is  the  loan  of 
a  pot  with  a  drop  of  boiling  water  in 
it. 

SIBBY.  You're  welcome  to  that 
much.  John,  fill  the  small  pot  with 
water.  [JOHN  fills  ike  pot^  And  I'll 


A  POT  OF  BROTH  97 

bring  out  the  hen  and  draw  it.  [She 
goes  out.~^ 

BEGGAR  [putting  in  stone].  There 
now,  that's  all  I  have  to  do  but  to 
put  it  on  the  fire  to  boil,  and  it's  a 
grand  pot  of  broth  will  be  before  me 
then. 

SIBBY.  And  is  that  all  you  have  to 
put  in  it  ? 

BEGGAR.  Nothing  at  all  but  that,  — 
only  maybe  a  bit  of  herb,  for  fear  the 
enchantment  might  slip  away  from  it. 
You  wouldn't  have  a  bit  of  the  Slan- 
lus  in  the  house,  ma'am,  that  was  cut 
with  a  black-handled  knife? 

SIBBY.  No,  indeed,  I  have  none  of 
that  in  the  house. 


98  A  POT  OF  BROTH 

BEGGAR.  Or  a  bit  of  the  Faravan 
that  was  picked  when  the  wind  was 
from  the  north  ? 

SIBBY.  No,  indeed,  I'm  sorry  there's 
none. 

BEGGAR.  Or  a  sprig  of  the  Ahartalav, 
the  father  of  herbs  ? 

JOHN.  There's  plenty  of  it  by  the 
hedge.  I'll  go  out  and  get  it  for 
you. 

BEGGAR.  Oh,  don't  mind  taking  so 
much  trouble ;  those  leaves  beside  me 
will  do  well  enough.  [He  takes  a  couple 
of  good  handfuls  of  the  cabbage  and 
onions  and  puts  them  in.~^ 

SIBBY.  But  where  did  you  get  the 
stone,  at  all  ? 


A   POT  OF  BROTH  99 

BEGGAR.  Well,  this  is  how  it  hap- 
pened. I  was  out  one  time,  and  a 
grand  greyhound  with  me,  and  it  fol- 
lowed a  hare,  and  I  went  after  it. 
And  I  came  up  at  last  to  the  edge  of 
a  gravel  pit  where  there  were  a  few 
withered  furze  bushes,  and  there  was 
my  fine  hound  sitting  up,  and  it  shiv- 
ering, and  a  little  old  man  sitting  be- 
fore him,  and  he  taking  off  a  hare-skin 
coat.  [Looking  round  at  the  ham  lone] 
Give  me  the  loan  of  a  kippeen  to  stir 
the  pot  with.  .  .  .  [He  takes  the 
ham  Tjone  and  puts  it  into  the  pot^ 

JOHN.     Oh  !     The  ham  bone ! 

BEGGAK.  I  didn't  say  a  ham  bone, 
I  said  a  hare-skin  coat. 


100  A  POT  OF  BEOTH 

SIBBY.  Hold  your  tongue,  John,  if 
it's  deaf  you're  getting. 

BEGGAR  [stirring  the  pot  with  the  same 
ham  lone^.  Well,  as  I  was  telling  you, 
he  was  sitting  up,  and  one  time  I 
thought  he  was  as  small  as  a  nut,  and 
the  next  minute  I  thought  his  head  to 
be  in  the  stars.  Frightened  I  was. 

SIBBY.  No  wonder,  no  wonder  at  all 
in  that. 

BEGGAK.  He  took  the  little  stone 
then  —  that  stone  I  have  with  me  — 
out  of  the  side  pocket  of  his  coat,  and 
he  showed  it  to  me.  « Call  off  your 
dog,"  says  he,  "and  I'll  give  you  that 
stone,  and  if  ever  you  want  a  good 
drop  of  broth,  or  a  bit  of  stirabout,  or 


A  POT  OF  BROTH  101 

a  drop  of  poteen  itself,  all  you  have  to 
do  is  to  put  it  down  in  a  pot  with  a 
drop  of  water  and  stir  it  a  while,  and 
you'll  have  the  thing  you  were  want- 
ing ready  before  you." 

SIBBY.    Poteen  !    Would  it  make  that  ? 

BEGGAE.  It  would,  ma'am ;  and 
wine,  the  same  as  the  Clare  Militia 
uses. 

SIBBY.  Let  me  see  what  does  it 
look  like  now.  [/s  lending  forward^ 

BEGGAE.  Don't  look  at  it  for  your 
life,  ma'am.  It  might  bring  bad  luck 
on  anyone  that  might  look  at  it,  and 
it  boiling.  I  must  put  a  cover  on  the 
pot,  or  I  must  colour  the  water  some 
way.  Give  me  a  handful  of  that  meal. 


102  A   POT  OF  BROTH 

[SiBBY  holds  out  a  plate  of  meal  and  he 
puts  in  a  handful  or  two.~\ 

JOHN.     Well,  he's  a  gifted  man ! 

SIBBY.  It  would  be  a  great  comfort  to 
have  a  stone  like  that.  [She  has  finished 
plucking  the  hen  which  lies  in  her  lap.~\ 

BEGGAR.  And  there's  another  thing 
it  does,  ma'am,  since  it  came  into 
Catholic  hands.  If  you  put  it  into  a 
pot  of  a  Friday  with  a  bit  of  the  whit- 
est meat  in  Ireland  in  it,  it  would  turn 
it  as  black  as  black. 

SIBBY.  That  is  no  less  than  a  mira- 
cle ;  I  must  tell  Father  Jones  about  that. 

BEGGAK.  But  to  put  a  bit  of  meat 
with  it  any  other  day  of  the  week,  it 
would  do  it  no  harm  at  all,  but  good 


A  POT  OF  BROTH  103 

Look  here,  now,  ma'am,  I'll  put  that 
nice  little  chicken  you  have  in  your 
lap  in  the  pot  for  a  minute  till  you 
see.  [Takes  it  and  puts  it  in.l^ 

JOHN  [sarcastically^.  It's  a  good  job 
this  is  not  a  Friday ! 

SIBBY.  Keep  yourself  quiet,  John, 
and  don't  be  interrupting  the  talk,  or 
you'll  get  a  knock  on  the  head  like  the 
King  of  Lochlann's  grandmother. 

JOHN.     Go  on,  go  on,  I'll  say  no  more. 

BEGGAR.  If  I'm  passing  this  way 
some  time  of  a  Friday,  I'll  bring  a 
nice  bit  of  mutton,  or  the  breast  of  a 
turkey,  and  you  '11  see  how  it  will 
be  no  better  in  two  minutes  than  a 
fistful  of  bog  mould. 


104  A   POT  OF  BROTH 

SIBBY  [getting  up].  Let  me  take  the 
chicken  out  now. 

BEGGAR.  Stop  till  I  help  you, 
ma'am ;  you  might  scald  your  hand. 
I'll  show  it  to  you  in  a  minute  as 
white  as  your  own  skin,  where  the  lily 
and  the  rose  are  fighting  for  mastery. 
Did  you  ever  hear  what  the  boys  in 
your  own  parish  were  singing  after 
you  being  married  from  them  ?  —  such 
of  them  that  had  any  voice  at  all  and 
not  choked  with  crying,  or  senseless 
with  the  drop  of  drink  they  took  to 
comfort  them  and  to  keep  their  wits 
from  going  with  the  loss  of  you. 

[SiBBY  sits  down  again  complacently.] 

SIBBY.     Did  they  do  that,  indeed  ? 


A  POT  OF  BROTH  105 

BEGGAR.  They  did,  ma'am.  This  is 
what  they  used  to  be  singing.  [Sings] 

The  spouse  of  Naoise,  Erin's  woe, 
Helen  and  Venus  long  ago, 
Their  charms  would  fade,  their  fame  would  flee, 
Beside  mo  gradh,  mo  stor,  mo  chree, 
My  Sibby  0! 

SIBBY  takes  a  fork  and  rises  to  take 
out  the  Tien.  BEGGAR  puts  up  his  hand 
to  stop  her  and  goes  on. 

Her  eyes  are  gray  like  morning  dew, 

Her  curling  hair  falls  to  her  shoe, 

The  swan  is  blacker  than  [looks  round  for  a 

simile,  then  at  his  hand~\  my  nail, 
Beside  my  queen,  my  Granuaile, 
My  Sibby  0! 


106  A  POT  OF  BROTH 

[SiBBY  half  rises  again.  BEGGARMAN 
puts  up  his  hand.^  Wait  till  you  hear 
to  the  end. 


The  King  of  France  would  give  his  throne 
To  share   her  pillow  [what's  the  rhyme  at  all'], 
So  would  I  myself.     .     .    . 

SIBBY  begins  to  keep  time  with  fork. 

The  Spanish  fleet  is  on  the  sea 
To  carry  away  mo  gradh,  mo  chree! 
My  Sibby  0! 

SIBBY  [stands  up  with  the  fork  in  her 
hand  and  sings  to  herself^.  "  The  Spanish 
fleet  is  on  the  sea,"  etc.  [To  JOHN]  I 
always  knew  I  was  too  good  for  you  ! 
[She  goes  on  humming.^ 


A  POT  OF  BROTH  107 

JOHN.  Well,  he  has  the  old  woman 
bewitched ! 

SIBBY  [suddenly  coming  to  her  wits]. 
Did  you  take  the  chicken  out  yet  ? 

BEGGAR  [taking  it  out  and  giving  it  a 
good  squeeze  into  the  pot].  I  did,  ma'am  ; 
look  at  it  there.  [She  takes  it  and  lays 
it  on  table.~] 

JOHN.     How  is  the  broth  getting  on  ? 

BEGGAR  [tasting  it  with  a  spoon].  It's 
grand ;  it's  always  grand. 

SIBBY.     Give  me  a  taste  of  it. 

BEGGAR  [takes  the  pot  off  and  slips  the 
ham  bone  behind  him].  Give  me  some 
vessel  till  I  give  this  shy  woman  a 
taste  of  it. 

JOHN  gives    him    an  egg  cup,  which  he 


108  A  POT  OF  BROTH 

fills  cmd  gives  to  SIBBY.  JOHN  gives  him 
a  mug,  and  he  Jills  this  for  himself,  pour- 
ing it  back  and  forward  from  it  to  a 
bowl  that  is  on  the  table,  and  drinking 
gulps  now  and  again.  SIBBY  blows  at 
hers  and  smells  it. 

SIBBY.  There's  a  good  smell  on  it, 
anyway.  [Tasting]  It's  lovely.  Oh, 
I'd  give  the  world  and  all  to  have  the 
stone  that  made  that ! 

BEGGAR.  The  riches  of  the  world 
wouldn't  buy  it,  ma'am.  If  I  was  in- 
clined to  sell  it,  the  Lord  Lieutenant 
would  have  given  me  Dublin  Castle 
and  all  that's  in  it  long  ago. 

SIBBY.  Oh !  couldn't  we  coax  it  out 
of  you  any  way  at  all  ? 


A   POT  OF  BROTH  109 

BEGGAR  [drinking  more  soup].  The 
whole  world  wouldn't  coax  me  out  of 
it,  except  maybe  for  one  thing.  [Looks 
depressed.']  Now  I  think  of  it,  there's 
only  one  reason  I  might  think  of  part- 
ing with  it  at  all. 

SIBBY  [eagerly].  What  reason  is 
that? 

BEGGAR.  It's  a  misfortune  that  over- 
takes me,  ma'am,  every  time  I  make 
an  attempt  to  keep  a  pot  of  my  own 
to  boil  it  in,  and  I  don't  like  to  be 
always  under  a  compliment  to  the 
neighbours  asking  the  loan  of  one.  But 
whatever  way  it  is,  I  never  can  keep 
a  pot  with  me.  I  had  a  right  to  ask 
one  of  the  little  man  that  gave  me  the 


110  A  POT  OF  BROTH 

stone.  The  last  one  I  bought  got  the 
bottom  burned  out  of  it  one  night  I 
was  giving  a  hand  to  a  friend  that 
keeps  a  still ;  and  the  one  before  that  I 
hid  under  a  bush  one  time  I  was  going 
into  Ennis  for  the  night,  and  some 
boys  of  the  town  dreamed  about  it 
and  went  looking  for  treasure  in  it,  and 
they  found  nothing  but  eggshells,  but 
they  brought  it  away  for  all  that,  and 
another  one. 

SIBBY.  Give  me  the  loan  of  the 
stone  itself  and  I'll  engage  I'll  keep  a 
pot  for  it.  ...  Wait  now  till  I  make 
some  offer  to  you. 

BEGGAR  [aside].  I'd  best  not  be 
stopping  to  bargain ;  the  priest  might 


A  POT  OF  BROTH  111 

be  coming  on  me.  .  .  .  [Gets  up.~] 
Well,  ma'am,  I'm  sorry  I  can't  oblige 
you.  ^Goes  to  door,  shades  his  eyes  and 
looks  out,  turns  suddenly.~\  I  have  no 
time  to  lose,  ma'am ;  I'm  off.  [Comes 
to  table  and  takes  up  his  hat.~^  Well, 
ma'am,  what  offer  will  you  make  ? 

JOHN.  You  might  as  well  leave  it 
for  a  day  on  trial,  first. 

BEGGAR  [to  JOHN].  I  think  it  likely 
I'll  not  be  passing  this  way  again. 
[To  SIBBY]  Well,  now,  ma'am,  as  you 
were  so  kind  as  for  the  sake  of  the 
good  treatment  you  gave  me  I'll  ask 
nothing  for  it  at  all.  Here  it  is  for 
you  and  welcome,  that  you  may  live 
long  to  use  it !  But  I'll  just  take  a 


112  A  POT  OF  BROTH 

little  bit  in  my  bag  that'll  do  for  sup: 
per  to-night,  for  fear  I  mightn't  be  in 
Tubber  before  night.  [Takes  up  the 
chicken^  And  you  won't  begrudge  me 
the  drop  of  whiskey  when  you  can 
make  plenty  for  yourself  from  this  out. 
[Takes  the  bottle.] 

JOHN.  You  deserve  it,  you  deserve 
it,  indeed.  You  are  a  very  gifted  man. 
Don't  forget  the  kippeen  !  [BEGGARMAN 
takes  the  ham  bone  also  and  exit.  JOHN 
follows  him.~\ 

SIBBY  [looking  at  the  stone  in  her 
hand].  Broth  of  the  best  —  stirabout 
—  poteen  —  wine  itself,  he  said  !  And 
the  people  that  will  be  coming  to  see 
the  miracle !  I'll  be  as  rich  as  Biddy 


A   POT  OF  BROTH  113 

Early  before  I  die !  [JOHN  enters.] 
Where  were  you,  John  ? 

JOHN.  I  just  went  out  to  shake  him 
by  the  hand.  He's  a  very  gifted  man. 

SIBBY.     He  is  so,  indeed. 

JOHN.  And  the  priest's  at  the  top 
of  the  boreen  coming  for  his  dinner. 
Maybe  you'd  best  put  the  stone  in  the 
pot  again. 

CURTAIN 


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BY  WILLIAM  BUTLER  YEATS 

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